


Sunday Night

by vega_voices



Series: Tapestry [2]
Category: Murphy Brown (TV)
Genre: Cute old people, F/M, late in life love, murphy brown revival, older love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 18:36:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17268935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vega_voices/pseuds/vega_voices
Summary: At seventy, she’d never expected to find this sensation again - gentle hands caressing her, calm tones encouraging her.





	Sunday Night

**Title:** Sunday Night  
**Author:** vegawriters  
**Fandom:** Murphy Brown  
**Timeframe:** post _A Lifetime of Achievement_ (season 11)  
**Pairing:** Murphy Brown/Nate Campbell  
**Rating:** Teen  
**A/N:** No, not a part of the [CRCS](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1097343) verse. It isn’t my fault that Candice and John have amazing onscreen chemistry.  
**Disclaimer:** Murphy Brown is owned and operated by Bend in the Road Productions and Warner Bros Entertainment. And if they don’t get the classic stuff screaming soon, imma gonna scream.

 **Summary:** _At seventy, she’d never expected to find this sensation again - gentle hands caressing her, calm tones encouraging her._

“This doesn’t bother you, does it?” Nate asked as he settled into the couch next to her. It had been thirty years since Murphy had tasted red wine like that in his glass, but she could still feel the weight of it rolling around on her tongue as the savory liquid, which had given her more nourishment than water, slid down her throat. She no longer craved booze, not like she had when her life had been controlled by just how much her body could handle. But she also still missed it and with each passing year, with the struggles in journalism and the issues in DC, it was so tempting to just pick up the bottle again. What harm would it do, after all?

“No,” Murphy reassured her date. Her mug of cocoa was warm in her hands and she appreciated the dollop of whipped cream Nate had added for her. He smiled and she reached over to pat his knee.

This was becoming their norm - two old birds settled together for an early Sunday dinner and, if she was wired enough, a Netflix documentary that if they didn’t fall asleep halfway through, they chose to ignore. At seventy, she’d never expected to find this sensation again - gentle hands caressing her, calm tones encouraging her. The sex wasn’t what it had been in her forties. They groaned and popped and creaked and he wasn’t exactly impressing her with his stamina. But, they had fun.

He’d talk about cases before him, she’d ramble about stories. They weren’t exclusive, well, it wasn’t like they were dating anyone else but no terms and conditions had been placed on Sunday Nights with Murphy and Nate. They swapped stories of their kids. He told her about his grandkids. Some nights, he reminisced about his late wife and her struggles with cancer. She opened up about her own bouts - the first time and the recurrence ten years ago that had made her leave FYI. She allowed herself to spill some details about Peter and Jake and even Jerry, whose death still hurt like a gunshot. He needed knee replacement surgery, but was delaying it. She laughed about her two fake hips.

Sunday nights with Murphy and Nate. It was a sitcom, really. Or a stage play where everyone knew they were just waiting for God to show up and walk them through whatever pearly gates were or weren’t waiting. It was comfortable, and especially when Avery was in Afghanistan, she needed comfortable.

“Do you regret it?” He’d asked one night, sipping his red wine. She’d had tea rather than cocoa and somehow knew what he meant without him clarifying. But she let him continue. “Encouraging your son to follow you into the family business.”

“I didn’t until he left for the Middle East. But he also called me from a Starbucks in Kabul, so … it’s a different world over there now, I guess.”

They went back and forth, rotating homes and living rooms, though Nate’s children didn’t live with him so there was an easier calm to being in his study, the sound on the TV low while they made moves on each other with the ease that only came with age and understanding that now, everything was going to be awkward and different. She wasn’t the model thin beauty she’d been at her peak. Her hair was thinner and her skin sagged in all the wrong places and her thighs and belly were something she’d once have rolled her eyes at. But Nate didn’t mind. He too had long since suffered his middle aged spread and no longer cared what butter was right to eat or how many carbs were the right serving size. They weren’t falling all over each other to get into bed, and more often than not fell asleep next to each other, hands on skin, just glad for a connection both of them had given up finding as the years moved forward.

“What should we watch tonight?” He asked, clicking over to Netflix. They scrolled the documentary options and her eye fell on a title. When had that been added? Murphy reached over and took the remote - something Nate rarely fought her on - and clicked for more info. _Black Orchids: The Forgotten Tragedy of Mogadishu_. Her heart caught and she hovered her finger over the button, unsure if she was ready to bring this part of her past into their lives.

“What is it?”

“Oh,” Murphy sighed, handing the remote back. “It’s nothing.”

The nothing Peter had eventually left her for. The reason he’d never contacted her after she called off the wedding. The story he’d left the states to chase that had won him every award on the planet and then some. A documentary two years in the making and at the Emmy ceremony, he’d thanked his wife for all the support she’d shown. As if Murphy hadn’t been the one to sit there while he agonized over the decision. After all, the assignment would separate them right after the wedding. Maybe, in the end, that had been the reason she’d ended it.

No. They just hadn’t been compatible.

Twenty-two years and she could still feel his lips on hers, soft as the wine in Nate’s glass. She could still feel him running his fingers down her back to wake her in the morning, kissing between her shoulder blades as she came to consciousness.

Nate looked at the screen and shook his head. “Maybe another night. But there was one on the polar ice caps that looked interesting.”

She offered him a smile. “Whatever works for you. I’m in a giving mood tonight.”

“I’d better take advantage of that,” he teased, squeezing her knee. Murphy smiled and turned her eyes to the documentary as Nate pressed play. It was a deliberate choice, one that would be filed away in forgotten viewing while dim light flickered across their bodies as he set the wine aside and she finished the cocoa and they came together, celebrating a present that grew shorter with every breath, but that still deserved to be lived.


End file.
